I was wrong to call him my first love
He was nothing but a scarecrow with talk.
YOUR image graced every notebook, textbook, pencil case.
I doodled your name period after period, page after page
through seventh, eighth, and even ninth grade.
My first piece of prose favoured you,
beginning with, “I love,”
and ending with “Alomar.”
In my dreams you rounded first, second, then third,
like a thoroughbred racing with the wind
Only you were racing to embrace me.
I crushed so hard, my yearbook shows, friends heard wedding bells
So it’s hard to say how that impostor managed to through you out.
All I know is the dude never quit
He saw what he liked and flattered it
His hugs were warm, his words kind, his eyes meek,
And before I knew it, you were languishing in the dugout.
Wiser now, I see his love was foul.
Yes, at first he made my heart beat wild,
but with the gushing came anguish and regret.
Only you make me feel that zing . . . that youthful buoyancy.
Understanding flirted too long with time
But now I declare: You were my first true love.
And, extra innings aside, Blue Bird, I honour you.
Please, assume your place in my hall of flame.